


Strenuous (2)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [26]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-01
Updated: 2005-01-01
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Strenuous (2)

Oh god, at last, at last, the feel of Jack Sparrow's cock back where Jack so dearly needs to feel it, all the heartbeat-hot pulsing living length of it, driving deep inside him; Jack Shaftoe lifts his legs and curls his calf against Sparrow's muscular behind, pulling him in closer, further, deeper, and they both groan as though they're at some tormented extreme, but Jack sees the euphoria on Sparrow's fascinating face and knows he's mirroring it, for how could he not with Jack Sparrow buried within him, so deep and so hot, sliding in smooth on a slick of Jack's sweat, his own seed and saliva, and the oil they'd used, it seemed an age ago, when first tonight he'd penetrated Jack; Jack feels himself held in place by Sparrow's quivering arms, though in fact it's the _cot_ that Sparrow's pulling towards him, the whole thing, with the suspension chains creaking and groaning though Jack can hardly hear 'em, what with his _own_ groans, and Sparrow's low cry as he drives himself suddenly somehow even further into Jack; then the pirate tugs on the chains and the resultant jolt makes Jack half-choke on his own breath, but that's nothing to the rough achy slide of it as the cot swings back, and Sparrow's pulled half t'wards Jack by the graspy clasp of Jack's legs as they tighten around Sparrow's narrow sweat-slidy waist; Sparrow stumbles, and for a moment the angle of his cock inside Jack's body (" _Inside! inside!_ " carols the Imp, which Jack can almost see out of the corner of his eye, spindle-limbs wound around the suspension-chain, spinning and twirling and swirling like ... like something, but Jack's incapable of remembering what, for all his mind is turned on Jack Sparrow) is almost painful, but it's a pleasurable grinding pain and it sends sparks all the way through him, to every limb and inch of skin, enfusing every nerve and starting each on its countdown to that Explosion that he craves so very achingly much; then Sparrow's pulling on the chains again, and oh Jack's never felt so opened up and helpless and at his mercy, though from the look on Sparrow's face that mercy will be quick in coming, for surely neither of 'em can last through this for long, this sparkly fizzy burn, the feel of every inch of Jack Sparrow's wondrous yard -- aye, and the flare of his cockhead, and where it thickens at the base -- drawing out slow and ramming in fast, and Jack can hear his voice but he's beyond knowing what he might be saying, moaning, gasping; there's a dull throb in his knees from hauling Sparrow closer, closer, closest, and as Sparrow lets go, again, of the chains, and the swing of the cot drags Jack back from him, he writhes and tightens every taut muscle, and hears Jack Sparrow's bony bare feet slide from under him as he half-falls on Jack, o delicious weighty living heat and the sudden glee of Sparrow's burning breath on Jack's blazing skin, but oh, feels like he's falling though he's not there yet, quite yet; and with a groan as loud as Jack's own, a groan that surprises them both to momentary silence, the cot tilts and jolts and Jack's falling in truth, Sparrow's cock tugged cruelly from his craving body, and he lets out a wordless howl of complaint and, yes, pain, as the heavy chain, freed from its hasp, falls cold and hard across his bare chest; "oh, _fucking hell_ ," Sparrow's saying, and a litany of other expletives, and Jack, still dizzied by all this sensation, realises that he's resting against the ruins of Jack Sparrow's hanging -- _formerly_ hanging -- cot, tilted crazily up by the surviving chains (so noisily straining that it's clear they won't survive much longer), and though his collarbone smarts where the chain lashed it, and there's a terrible unfilled ache at the core of him, and his ribs feel bruised and sore, Jack Shaftoe can't stop himself laughing helplessly at the picture the two of them must make, Jack Sparrow naked and flushed and furious, clambering to his feet to kick bad-temperedly at the cot and almost overbalancing, and scowling at Jack: "You broke my bed!"; " _Our_ bed," splutters Jack, still madly amused by it all, "an' anyway, it was _your_ fault," and he can see from Sparrow's hungry look that he's as eager to be reburied in the dark slithery empty heat of Jack's body as Jack is to have him there, now, now: and then, oh god Jack's ribs hurt when he laughs but how can he help it, eh?, there's a banging at the cabin-door, and old Stone calling out, "Anything wrong, Captain? Anything that needs seeing to?": and Jack Sparrow's viscid, pungent hand is clamped tight over Jack's mouth, stifling his redoubled amusement, as he assures Stone through gritted teeth, "No, no, nothing important, it'll wait 'til morning, eh?", and all the while Jack's hips are pumping up -- without any conscious volition of his own -- towards Sparrow, and he's making it indubitably clear that there's _one_ thing, at least, in the cabin that not only needs seeing to as a matter of some urgency, but will take matters into its -- his -- own hands, mouth, whatever, if he doesn't regain Sparrow's attention immediately: and from outside the cabin there's the sound of Stone's muttering retreat, something about wild beasts, and that suits Jack just exactly right at the moment, for he's pinned beneath Sparrow's sinewy form, pressing every inch of himself against that ardent body, biting at Sparrow's muffling hand until it's removed and making itself useful elsewhere on Jack's tight-wound corpus, and at last, at last, Jack Sparrow is pulling him (and a quantity of the bedding, for which Jack's distantly grateful, as no doubt he'll be glad of some comfort for his sore ribs once more immediate urges are alleviated) away from the wreckage of the cot, onto the stained Moorish carpet -- Jack's grateful, too, for that piratical decadence -- that covers the _Pearl_ 's stained deck, and Jack's being tilted and bent as though he's supple as Sparrow himself, and doesn't mind the angle and splay of his legs if it lets Sparrow back into him like _that_ , oh Christ and all the saints, and Sparrow's hand (still wet from Jack's mouth, and showing the dark twinned curves of Jack's bite) is on Jack's demi-member, sliding as velvety-smooth as Sparrow's hard cock into Jack's tightening, willing arse, and he wants this to go on for hours more but his body can't resist Jack Sparrow, can't resist the way this pirate takes Jack, makes Jack take him, makes Jack take it all and give him everything, and opener wider deeper further harder more, and Sparrow's incendiary gaze is fixed on him as though he's all and everything (which is right and true and fair, for so's Sparrow to Jack himself), and Sparrow saying his name, then half his name, and then some wordless sound as he pushes in deep and there's a rush of heat, and Jack's own little death gouts blazingly out of him.


End file.
